Bradley Beach Epitaph

BY David A. Porter


The decades blur.
Time is a palette knife,
a stab wound.
You bleed in ochres, grays,
that sea green beneath the pier.

Everything is reduced to rinds,
burnt skin,
the crumpled accordion blossom
of a lemon Italian ice,
cold syrup pooled in its bellows.

An easterly breeze,
the scent of coconut oil,
her yellow sundress flutters.
The world,
for a moment,
bestride the Atlantic.

All mermaids return to the sea.
You are older again.

 




David A. Porter, formerly of New Jersey, now resides in Nicosia, Cyprus with his wife, Antigone, and his infant son, Leontios. His music criticism and his comic strip, Pretty Sure, is available at Caught in the Carousel. He is currently at work on a collection of short stories, Protracted Adolescence, and is always available at porter1306@yahoo.com.